


fracturing, falling, away from the world he built

by arctickchild



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, series finale spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-18 02:17:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7295557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arctickchild/pseuds/arctickchild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He goes to Italy because there's no where else for him to turn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fracturing, falling, away from the world he built

**Author's Note:**

> i have a LOT of feelings about the series finale, most negative, but i needed to do something productive with them. i'm not entirely sure of which tags should go on this, so if i missed any let me know.
> 
> Just a warning: this is in no way a fix-it. i'm not interested in fixing anything right now; right now, i'm interested in understanding, and maybe after i've reached understanding i will work on fixing

“Harold,” she says, and “you're _alive_ ,” and, “ _oh my God_.”

He doesn't really hear any of it. She feels different than he remembers, too soft and short as she wraps her arms around him, her breathing too erratic against his neck; it takes a second for Harold Finch to remember Harold Martin, for him to slide his arms around her and bury himself in her scent.

“I'm sorry,” he says, and he doesn't know if it's for all the lies he's told her or all the lies he will, but it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. It doesn't – matter.

“It's okay,” Grace says, and repeats, “you're _alive_. It's okay.”

It doesn't matter.

~

There is talk of a new vigilante in New York, a short woman dressed in all black with angry eyes and the tongue of a viper; there is an article from the New York Times left open on an abandoned laptop that mentions a homicide detective who closed two dozen missing persons cases; there is a traffic cam on the corner outside Grace's apartment that blinks at him when he pauses to study it.

Grace doesn't ask him where he's been, what he's been doing, and for that he loves her. She quietly stocks up on Seneca green tea, on painkillers and tailored suits. She lets him cover the laptop webcam, turns off the news when the Ice-9 virus is mentioned. When he wakes in the middle of the night, shaking and biting off the name that's been on the tip of his tongue since the end, she trails her fingers through his hair and lets him cling to her as he tries to anchor himself to the world that was left behind.

This is temporary, and a part of him knows it; it doesn't matter, in the end, and so Grace tells him about the project she's working on, about her book club and the nice bakery down the street that always gives her an extra pastry. This is temporary, and so she lets him cling to what's left of what they were, unquestioned. One day that will change; one day the joy of having him back will fade and he will tell her lies about who he is and who he was that will be true enough to be convincing but won't touch on the intensity of everything he's lost. But for now, for now, it doesn't matter; for now she lets him stay, and pretends not to notice the way he turns away when good men in nice suits pass too closely, and he tries not to wake her up when he gets up to keep tabs on the ruins of a life a continent away.

~

“Harold,” she asks, “who is Mr Reese?”

It was always going to be temporary.

~

He tells her everything. He doesn't mean to; he knows what will happen, when the lies come to light and Harold Finch lay exposed to her sight, but he tells her; about the Machine, the late nights and the initial thrill of creation, about Nathan and Corwin and Dillinger, about Joss Carter and Samantha Groves and Shaw and Fusco and John, John, _John_. He tells her about Samaritan, about the Ice-9 virus and the rooftop and the endless flight across the Atlantic.

And Grace, beautiful, clever, compassionate Grace, cries for him; Grace reaches over and takes his hand, and says, “I'm sorry,” says, “I understand,” says, “It's okay.”

It all falls on his ears like white noise, like static, like the fracturing of Harold Finch that he has been so desperately trying to tune out.

And then she smiles, and rests her hand against his cheek, and tells him, “I think it's time you go home.”

It's a surprise, a shock hard enough to trip the fail-safes hardwired in his brain, and Harold Martin says, “I am home.”

And Grace cries. And Grace leans over and presses a kiss to his forehead. And Grace says, “Harold Finch, I think it's time you go home.”

He loves her for that. He loves her, in the imperfect and broken love of a man trying too hard to hold to a lie that has been collapsing since before he told it.

He squeezes her hand, and he gets up, and he goes home.

 


End file.
